Susanna Hits Hollywood [antikvár]

ONE This cannot be happening to me. The Trips - my three baby bros - are tripping out. Sam is wearing a bowl of apple sauce on his head. Evan's just sat on his sagging, stinking diaper and shoved a Cheerio up his nose. Henry heard Oprah say, 'Thanks so much!' on the TV and now he's repeating it over and over with a lisp. 'Thankth tho mutth.' 'MomF I shout. Though I know she can't hear me. She's taking one of her marathon showers. Not that I blame her. I'd lock myself in the bathroom, too, if I had two-year-old triplets, and one of them had a loaded diaper toxic enough to melt the tattoos off Tommy Lee. At this particular time, however, I don't care that my mother needs a moment to herself. Do my needs count for nothing? Isn't a mother supposed to be there for her offspring? Even if, as she told me, 'My hair is full of spit-up and my deodorant stopped working three days ago/ She didn't reek that bad, and I need her now. Right now. Nell